The Myrtles Plantation

by Ghostly Enconter

  “I don’t believe in voodoo,” I protested, which was ironic coming from someone who had just destroyed a perfectly good roll of film for no logical reason. I even found myself secretly wishing I had asked the guide what exactly happens to people who are cursed.

  “What did you do?” she continued to prod.

  “What could I do?” I grumbled. “No one warned us about taking photographs.”

  Judy, it seems, had done quite a bit of research on the subject of voodoo when she learned she was coming to Haiti, and proceeded to ramble on about how it evolved from African religions, and how it was very heavily linked to spirits of the dead. She explained how these spirits could affect the fate of the living, for both good and evil. She also talked about voodoo spells and voodoo dolls, and how sometimes people even died from a voodoo curse. Great.

  “Almost all of Haiti’s population practice voodoo,” Judy went on to explain, citing an article in the Lonely Planet that she had found in the library. She now considered herself an expert on the subject. “Voodoo is all about spirits and the afterlife. Voodoo ceremonies fire up with plenty of chanting and frenzied dancing, before the mambo (priestess) becomes possessed by the spirit they have been summoning. During the ceremony, an animal, usually a goat, sheep, chicken, or dog, is sacrificed, and the possessed dancer might drink its blood.

  “Later, voodoo made its way to New Orleans along with the slaves. The New Orleans version incorporates aspects of Christianity and hoodoo, a simplified folk version of voodoo, using live snakes, animal bones, candles, and potent herbs in its ceremonies.

  “Of course, the Big Easy is the perfect setting for the mysterious world of voodoo, with its rivers, mystical bayous, and old plantations where the slaves lived,” Judy continued. “As a matter of fact, we are going there next week. I understand that the people who run the voodoo shops, temples, and cemetery tours take their religion very seriously. I find it fascinating. I am dying to go to the St. Louis Cemetery, to visit the tomb of the most famous voodoo queen of all . . . Marie Laveau,” she added, squeezing her husband Tom’s hand.

  “So, how was your day in Haiti,” I broke in at Judy’s first pause, quickly changing the subject. Judy went on to tell us all about her day in town. Their adventures were quite tame compared to those of a couple who had barely escaped with their lives and might now be carrying some diabolical curse. Judy and Tom seemed like nice, sincere people, and we hit it off exceptionally well together—

  almost as if it was meant to be. And perhaps it was.

  As we conversed, we found we had an increasing number of things in common. Like us, they were also from San Jose, California. They had not only booked with the same travel agency, but of the thirty or so agents at the agency, we had both used the same lady.

  Jim and I had originally planned to travel in November to celebrate my birthday, but when we called the travel agency and learned that we could save five hundred dollars by going in October instead, we quickly changed our plans.

  It had long been my dream to purchase an inn one day. Ever since I was a little girl, I had also dreamed of living in the South. My father had spent his boyhood in Hammond, Louisiana, lazing at Pontchartrain beach, fishing for catfish in the lake, catching fireflies in jars. It sounded so romantic. He grew up just a stone’s throw from Lake Pontchartrain, immortalized by Mark Twain, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and many other wonderful authors.

  When I was in college, my father took me on a “date.” He picked me up at my dorm and took me out to a nice restaurant for dinner and then off to the movies to see Gone With the Wind. I sat there mesmerized.

  I wanted my inn to be somewhere in the South, and because of my dad, I felt an affinity for Louisiana, so I had spent many hours at the main library devouring anything I could find on the inns of Louisiana. Even more coincidentally, in the weeks leading up to the cruise, while Judy was doing her research on Haiti and New Orleans, she was also researching the inns of Louisiana, as they wanted to stay at a plantation during their stop in New Orleans on their way back to San Jose! And . . . she chose to do her research at the very same library. It’s quite possible that our paths had crossed as we scoured the books on Southern inns. What was even stranger was the fact that we each had library branches closer to our respective homes, but we had both done our research at the main branch instead.

  When all these coincidences came to light, Judy became convinced that it was a sign, and she insisted we join them at a place they had chosen for their stopover on their way back to San Jose. They were to fly to New Orleans, and drive up to Jackson, Louisiana, where they were to stay at a plantation called Asphodel.

  “Why not come with us?” she pleaded.

  “I wish we could, but we just don’t have the time,” I responded. It really did sound fantastic, and it was very tempting, but we did have other commitments. Judy was relentless and she would not take “no” for an answer. It was almost as if she had some sort of mission to complete, a destiny to fulfill, so with another of those last-moment “inspirations,” on our very last day at sea, after much persuasion, we relented and agreed to join them. It was a decision that would change my life forever.

  CHAPTER 3

  By the time we awoke the next morning, the ship had already arrived safely back in the States and docked in Miami. Remembering my curse, I quickly did a body part inventory on myself, and offered a quick “Thank God” when I found everything intact. Not knowing exactly how these voodoo curses worked, and having seen one too many television shows on the subject, I was grateful to be alive and have my arms and legs functioning in their proper places.

  Back on the U.S. mainland we flew to Louisiana, or “The Dream State,” as it was described on the license plate of our rented car. New Orleans is one of my favorite places on earth. Even the airport exudes an exotic flavor, with Dixieland jazz piped through the speakers, the deep Southern drawls, and gift shops overflowing with pralines and plastic alligators. When I noticed the voodoo dolls that appeared to be mocking me from shop windows, I quickly looked away.

  The Johnsons had a full day planned in New Orleans, full of voodoo shops and cemetery tours. I did not want to be anywhere near anything having to do with voodoo, so we decided to go our separate ways and meet up the next day in Jackson, Louisiana, at Asphodel Plantation and Inn. Jim and I spent our afternoon in the Garden District, home of Anne Rice, Tulane University, and the famous “Vieux Carré” or French Quarter. We paid a quarter each to ride the streetcar named “Desire” up St. Charles Boulevard, past incredibly beautiful, stately mansions in all states of disrepair.

  “Oh, I would love to get my hands on one of those falling-down mansions and restore it to its original grandeur,” I thought to myself. The more dilapidated a house looked, the more the paint was peeling, the more drawn I was to it. I had already restored half a dozen Gothic-looking Victorian homes, purchasing them for practically nothing, lovingly fixing them up, and selling them restored at prime prices. I learned how to hang Sheetrock, paint, tape, and float. I loved it, so much so that I gave up a successful career as a computer programmer to renovate these magnificent painted ladies full-time. By the time I was twenty-two, I had received the very first “Bellringer” award in Los Gatos, California, for historic preservation. Jim, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with fixer-uppers, deeming them “eyesores,” so I hid my delight in the homes on St. Charles.

  Later, meandering down streets lined with shotgun homes with clapboard windows and the intricate ornamental ironwork that defines the French Quarter, we happened upon the Cornstalk Hotel, named for its famous six-foot-tall iron cornstalk fence. I loved the gaudy painted ironwork, its vivid yellow ears of corn adorning the life-size forest-green stalks lining the front of the unpretentious Victorian house. Legend has it that the cornstalk fence was created so that the owner’s new wife from Iowa would feel right at home.

  “Let’s stay here,” Jim suggested. I readily agreed.

  After checking in, Jim and I strolled hand
in hand down Royal Street, where we peeked into nearly every antique shop along the way, and down St. Peters Street to the lively double piano bar at Pat O’Brien’s to enjoy one of their famous hurricane drinks. We enjoyed our dinner at Galatoire’s, an historic, traditional seafood restaurant on Bourbon Street. After our meal we slowly made our way past a row of gift shops and adult toy shops that all looked the same, strip clubs plastered with posters of naked ladies (or incredibly beautiful men in drag), and Lucky Dog hot dog stands on every corner, all the things that make up Bourbon Street after dark.

  It had all been a marvelous day, but somehow I felt restless, unsettled; I felt as if my real calling was not here in New Orleans—that I was supposed to be elsewhere.

  The next morning, after a light breakfast of café au lait and beignets at Café du Monde, we left the city and headed for Asphodel Plantation, near Jackson, Louisiana, to meet up with the Johnsons. Along the way, filthy, grimy industrial plants dotted the highway, which ran parallel to the Mississippi River. I had expected pure, pristine shorelines, and was surprised by the startling impositions of these massive oil refineries and industrial corporations. As we got closer to Jackson, however, the scenery softened, turning into gentle hills and oak-lined highways.

  We pulled into Asphodel, which was nothing more than a cluster of older, though far from antebellum, buildings. I was disappointed to learn that the accommodations were not in an actual plantation, as I had expected; however, nothing could dampen my excitement at being at the inn. We quickly freshened up so we could go meet the Johnsons, who were already waiting on the verandah, relaxing in white wooden rockers, sipping planter’s punch served in crystal goblets. We all embraced, as if it had been months since we had parted company, rather than just one day. Jim and I took our places in the rockers next to Tom and Judy. Immediately, a young black man carrying a silver tray appeared.

  “What can I serve you?” he asked.

  “What do you serve that is traditionally Southern?” I asked the waiter.

  “Mint juleps, planter’s punch, and brandy milk punch, ma’am,” he replied.

  When Jim learned that the mint juleps were made with two shots of bourbon, he ordered one, while I opted for the more genteel milk punch. Relaxing in our rockers, we lazed away the hours until it was time for dinner, and the four of us strolled down the path to the restaurant. Incredibly fluffy, flaky biscuits arrived at almost the same moment we sat down. On the menu for dinner were “drunken chicken” and rum-soaked ribs. For dessert, we devoured bread pudding, drenched with rum sauce, another specialty. I was getting the impression that everything in Louisiana revolved around liquor.

  Satiated and woozy, we headed to our respective rooms and made plans to meet in the dining room again in the morning. Our room was small and starkly furnished, not at all what I had anticipated. I opened my suitcase and reached for my nightgown. Suddenly, I froze. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a shadow boldly creeping toward me. As I flinched, it turned and quickly disappeared into the bathroom. I plunged for the bed, and once my feet were safely off the floor, I began to scream. Jim, observing me, also dove for the bed.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked breathlessly.

  “I saw something. It was creepy. It was coming right at me.” I was still reeling from my harrowing confrontation.

  “A ghost?” he asked, teasing.

  “No, a disgusting little bug,” I replied, cringing at the thought.

  “Maybe it was a cockroach,” Jim guessed. “I hear they have them down here.”

  “Whatever it was, I don’t like it,” I spat. Afraid that more of them might come out of the woodwork and attack us if we turned off the lights, we slept with the lights on. I kept one eye open, continually scanning the room for any sign of the creepy, crawly invaders.

  Over breakfast, the Johnsons laughed at my squeamishness. It seems I continued to be a constant source of entertainment for them. Judy, the walking library, proceeded to tell us everything we never wanted to know about cockroaches. I never knew that if you froze a cockroach for ten years, and then thawed it out, it will revive.

  The four of us spent another lazy day at the inn, and before we knew it, the Johnsons had to leave for San Jose. Since we had the week away, Jim and I decided to extend our stay in Louisiana for another day or two.

  “I know!” I exclaimed the next morning. “Let’s go to St. Francisville!”

  We had previously toured the quaint, historic town when we were passengers, along with my parents, on the Mississippi Queen riverboat cruise several years before. The cruise started in New Orleans, made stops in St. Francisville and Natchez, Mississippi, making its way up to Vicksburg before heading back down to Baton Rouge on the way back to New Orleans. While I loved all the history and the antebellum structures in Vicksburg and Natchez, I had become enchanted by St. Francisville, a mystical little river town. It had been a sacred place to the Tunica Indians. In the seventeenth century, Spanish monks settled across the river in what is now New Roads, crossing the river to the higher grounds of St. Francisville to bury their dead and perform secret ceremonies. Later it had been settled by English and Scottish immigrants hoping to make a good life in America.

  My memories of St. Francisville reemerged, or perhaps they had always been there, leading me back—back to a place where time stood still. And of these places and memories of St. Francisville, there was one place that stood out in particular, a place that beckoned louder than all the others—the Myrtles Plantation.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next morning we checked out of Asphodel and drove north on Scenic Highway, toward St. Francisville. It was a leisurely drive across the gentle hills of the Felicianas. The spindly, barren autumn trees allowed us to spy upon the Victorian houses and antebellum estates that normally are hidden from view behind the oaks, invisible when spring foliage once again prohibits the prying eyes of passersby. After driving for nearly half an hour, we finally saw signs of civilization in the form of gas stations and fried-chicken stands. A road sign pointed us from Scenic Highway to downtown St. Francisville. We passed a hospital, a Jr. Food Mart, and a dilapidated two-story clapboard building with a hand-painted sign hung on top that read “the Green Door Café.” Several elderly black men in faded denim coveralls were leaning against the front wall of the building, as if they were holding it up. Just a few short blocks beyond, antique shops and adorable bric-brac Victorian homes lined the streets.

  “While we’re here, let’s find out how much houses cost here!” I said excitedly. I wanted to get a feel for the market, just in case this might be where we wanted to have our inn one day. I spotted the Historical Society near the end of the street and suggested that we stop and get directions to a local real estate office.

  A smiling, blue-haired lady greeted us. “What can I tell you about our charming little town?” she cooed.

  “We are looking for a real estate office,” I told her. Her expression changed from friendly and cheerful to hesitant and guarded, and I suspected that she was probably leery of any outsiders looking to move into her small community. Hesitantly, she gave us directions to a nearby real estate office. However, traveling back up Ferdinand Street toward the highway, I spotted an intriguing-looking log-style cabin with a sign that read, “Audubon Realty.”

  “Hey, let’s stop here instead,” I suggested to Jim. If the real estate agent recommended by the stuffy old lady at the Historical Society were as snooty as she was, I would rather go elsewhere. So we pulled up to Audubon Realty and entered the primitive quarters. It turns out that it was an authentic slave cabin that had recently been restored and moved to this location.

  The old-timers inside, who split their days between the office and the Audubon Bar, stopped talking as we entered and eyed us cautiously. I guess they could tell we weren’t from around there.

  “We are interested in seeing what you have for sale,” I offered. They scrutinized our California casual attire as they sized us up and passed us on to their new sales
lady-in-training, Betty Jo Eschette. I suddenly felt a little bit self-conscious about my appearance. I’m sure they thought we were low-end buyers. I looked about sixteen, with my long, straight blond hair and no makeup. Even with makeup on, and all dolled up, at twenty-eight years old I was still getting carded whenever we went out. Jim’s tight jeans, showing off his perfectly protruding rear end (my private nickname for Jim was “Buns,” short for “Honey Buns,” until, over time, the name took on a new meaning), were in stark contrast to the conservative, baggy slacks worn by the real estate staff.

  If Betty Jo felt that she was “stuck” with us, she didn’t show it. Like a trouper, she enthusiastically chauffeured us from house to house, breaking only for a late lunch at the seafood restaurant she owned on the highway. “Well, what do you think?” she asked hopefully, after showing us the tenth house in a row.

  I felt more than a little guilty about all the time and energy she had wasted on us. Inspecting all those homes was interesting, but I was exhausted, and I suspected that Jim and Betty Joe were, too. Although I dreamed of owning an inn someday, I had absolutely no intention of buying anything at that time.

  “Actually, we are looking for something a little bit bigger and older,” I explained, hoping she would give up, and we could leave.

  Her eyes lit up. “I know just the place. It’s a brand new listing. As a matter of fact, I am probably the only real estate agent in all of St. Francisville who knows it’s for sale. It’s called the Myrtles Plantation.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Have you ever experienced a time in your life when your past and your future collide in one insane moment, and you know unequivocally that you have connected with your destiny? I knew the instant Betty Jo mentioned the Myrtles Plantation that it was no coincidence that brought us to St. Francisville on that very day, and that the Myrtles was somehow destined to be ours.